


The Interstellar Guide to Social, Magical, and Military Theory and Application

by MercuriallyApathetic



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Ass-Kicking, Gen, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuriallyApathetic/pseuds/MercuriallyApathetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the poorly lit darkness of space of the relatively not that far future in space, there is war and a hundred other things happening. In space.*<br/>The following work is a study of the type of events around which the causality concerning multiple established Type II civilizations is determined and carried out, with an analysis of said events on the psyche and the collective consciousness of its contemporaries.**</p><p>That said, leave your sanity and disbelief at the door.<br/> </p><p> </p><p>*Disclaimer: A large percentage, if any, actually takes place in space. Also, due to health and environmental concerns, the lighting has been improved.<br/>**Disclaimer: We are not responsible for any actual learning taking place. Go read a book, nerd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Jake English, Hold the Density, Double Badassery! And Pickles.

**Author's Note:**

> Written with the help of some certifiably insane motherfucker on the MSPA forums, goes by Levenfish.  
> You've read the space fics. Ones where John and Equius tag team juggalos and general things of that nature. Listen, there is always a time and a place for a work where it sees its characters kick ass. And works that know they're of lesser quality. So they go with the cheese. They layer it on, they goddamn revel in their glorious dairy product. They take it to its logical conclusion, then decide it isn't enough and kicks what little reason left to the curb as they go for a joyride on the freeway.

_"The danger posed to us by these trolls is far too great to ignore. Their very modus operandi represents an incomprehensibly vast risk to our political sovereignty, social independence, and way of life. Their intersection with the Orion Federation has already resulted in all-out war, with countless human lives being lost even as we plead. Despite our differences, they are human. And what is man, or any other species, any other life, if it does not protect its own in their time of need? Therefore, I proudly ask that this council approve the declaration of war, in order to safeguard our people with the power vested in us by those that call us to defend, to intervene in a heinous war of aggression by alien invaders unlike what we have yet witnessed, and promote the general welfare of humanity in its time in the stars."_

Dominion of Terra Resolution S-64374-IWW-2607-03-08

 

* * *

 

 

_On the verdant planet of... goddammit Jake you inattentive buffoon. Somewhere._

Your name is JAKE ENGLISH, sharpshooter extraordinaire, big game hunter, and a right dashing lad serving as a special operative in the Dominion military. One day, you challenged a pair of military men to fisticuffs after they harassed the janitor, though they were cowering lads, they suggested a test of marksmanship. Six well placed shots turned into eighteen, until you outshot every last man in the whole platoon! They apologized, bought you enough drinks to last you a hazy, spinning lifetime, and begged you to sign up with the army. Six years later, at twenty-three, you were hand-picked by some high-up commander for what can only be whispered in dark corners of dusty bars on moonless nights as one of the military's vaunted seeker teams.

 

It's a downright muggy march, this place. You were deployed by stealth ship into... you didn't quite read the names. You took in the terrain, the routes. You've dragged yourself through two smelly, thick bogs like nana's purported cold cure stew, a nasty copse of trees alive with winged snakes ravening for prey, and a set of hills so treacherously steep, jagged, and surprisingly windy that you've had to acknowledge that your legendary mental fortitude has its limits.

 

 

 _Twenty-six hours ago, onboard the_ Majesty of Typheus

"Your first target is the Summoner. He is reported to have telepathy attuned to animals as well as command of an entire regiment. Said telepathy has allowed the trolls to take control of the world's animal population and turn them against the confederates." An image pops up on the feed, a tall, lean man with horns and muscles like a bull, and a venerable-looking lance carved with millions of tiny letters.

The commander looks around at the four of you, violet eyes inscrutable.

Dirk speaks up. "Animals? Does that include insects?"

"He has not, though this does not preclude that he may. Additionally, this telepathy has a confirmed range of four and a half miles."

"Don't you worry madam, we'll take care of this easily!" you say. This is one troll. You've got this. You try thinking of all the ways it could go wrong, but you can't think of anything!

A door opens. Who could it be? "You also have a wizard wannabe and the North Korea of music to kill." You turn around to find your other handler. He's the spitting image of Dirk, down to the inflections in their voice when he knows something you don't. Which happens to be everything, but how can you be expected to know every little thing?

"I was getting to that, Dave," the commander replies. "Your second target is the Orphaner, a member of their aristocratic offshoot of the main species. He dresses extravagantly, though this covers the various defensive wards and armor underneath, not to mention he rides a disc into battle."

The hologram warps to a bust of a proud-looking troll with sharp features and the look of hunger and hatred in his gaze. Kudos to the trolls, they can't be all bad if they can sculpt such art! Even if it's unsuitable for small children and people of less than formidable constitutions.

Sadly, it changes again, this time of a... shaggy gorilla? Wait no that's a troll. You think. Maybe someone grafted horns onto gorillas; you've never been to Terra and you hear they have peculiar taste!

"This is your third target, the Cardinal. He is believed to be a religious leader, as evidenced by the numerous recordings of his voice shrieking what we believe are words." She steeples her hands and looks at the ceiling. "His garbled speech set our translation efforts back by weeks."

A pair of boots come near your arm. You're not sure how Roxy made it into the team, she's in sore need of discipline! And she encourages everyone else to goof off! They don't take things as seriously as they should!

"So we go in, sneak past their guards, nix them, and get out, right?"

The officer smiles. They do look quite similar, and are probably related. Being professional in the face of blood relation only affords her even more respect. "Correct. You will be airdropped within three hours."

Commander Strider speaks up. "Remember, kiddos. Plan A is be sneaky. Plan B is be sneaky, and make sure no one has proof you aren't the most elusive smooth criminals this side of Laniakea."

 

 

_Back on Jungly Deathworld of Vines, Sticky Mud, and TREES TREES TREEEEEEEEEES._

An hour later, you peruse the grass for a spot to lay on the hill overlooking the valley. According to Roxy, the troll encampment is at the edge of those sickly looking trees. It's a strange sight, really. You see a waterfall to your left, rocks, ferns, vines, and a pair of thick-barked trees hiding the dead sentry. The tree line is below you, this thick, bushy, green cushion that covers the valley. Everything's green; the plants, the trees, the water's tinged green, the blood spatter on the tree is green.

Then there's purple trees, jagged leaves barely hanging onto dark maroon trees. The violet tree line goes on until it reaches the other end of the valley, where Jane's found and picking off more sentries.

"I don't think this one's one of them," Jane says.

Roxy's dangling her legs off a tree branch. "What makes you say that?"

She looks back to the dead troll. It's black-haired and dressed in camouflage plates, blocky and angular looking things with black cowhide underneath. "They're always traveling in pairs over there. Why is this one alone?" She inhales. She exhales. She fires.

She gives the go ahead. "All down. Let's go!" You and Roxy cheer as you jump into the valley.

You land first, as usual. Your boots absorb the impact as they redirect a several hundred foot drop into a mighty leap sixteen feet up!

You grab onto a branch, tucking your knees and swinging off. Your right foot pushes off a mossy tree trunk as you land on another tree, left arm hanging off a branch while your right carries a pistol. Just like those vintage action films Dirk watches!

"Hey Levi." Dirk buzzes in your ear. "We got more of them." You see at least thirty trees those lunatics could be hiding behind! "Where are they?!" you ask.

"Up above. They don't see us, but they just got out. They're heading in our direction."

Jane pipes in. "You don't think they saw me?" You can imagine her eyes darting as she wonders, back on the ridge with Dirk.

But they're baddies! Why would they come to you when they should be checking their fallen comrades? "Then they'd be over there, correct?"

Dirk grunts in agreement. "They have antigravs and lances. Don't tip them off."

You start looking for footholds down the tree. Bumps, broken gaps in the bark, branches, anything. These boots are mighty useful, but they're as noisy as randy lions!

 

Roxy makes her report as you reach the grassy jungle floor. "Yeah, we've got a lot of guys here. Janey, I'll mark the targets. Be ready, I haven't seen any of them yet." Jane replies with a mm hmm.

You duck under a large, bulbous tree root as you hear footsteps. Four of them march by six trees away. About twenty feet, a dozen pieces of cover both you and they can use, you probably can take them out, but you can't imagine they'd be dumb enough to not be watching them.

You reach into your pack and take out your cloak. It's a shimmery blanket made of the same stuff as Roxy's suit, blending you in with the foliage. Unlike hers though, you're a sitting duck while you have it on!

They turn. Oh dickens they're coming. They have the same blocky armor, with only their mouths and the tip of a headphone poking out. Scary faces, really, their goggles are angled to look downright furious, and their horns are unnerving.

To an untrained individual, of course. Not to Jake English, the man of grit!

A hawk cries in the distance. You see another team far away, an instant of the grey of their guns flashing in the one gap among thirty-something rugged vines.

Intriguing seconds pass as these four pass by. They're hunched over and twitchy. Standard issue seems to be a rifle, at least one pistol, six reloads carried in pockets on their belts, and two knives put wherever it seems they want. They're close enough to see the dirt caked in their boots and hear the grass trampled under them.

They turn and let you out of their sight. "Roxy, how's it going?"

"I see the guy on the disc. He's kinda hot." This is what you were in a tizzy about! Discipline! You're here to kill the target, not court him and treat him to a lovely seafood and pasta dinner by the sea while an elderly man in a dashing suit plays soft piano music in the moonlight! She continues, though.

Thankfully. "Dirk, you down here? We need you for this."

"Roger. We need to set things up. On my mark, explode whatever you have. Jake, you'll see me once you come up from that tree, there's a patrol to your left that should be passing where you are." You turn your head to see another set of angry metal heads. "Three."

You ready your pistols. Both barrels!

"Two."

Earplugs in place. They're sponges that react to noise. Your ammo feeds to your pistols are ready. A hundred sixty fire charges ready to scorch whoever you hit.

"One."

A second and third team are in your sight! They're all near you! And you are going to ruin their day! You have them cornered! You know where they've come from, where they're walking, and soon?! You definitely know where they're going!

"Let's go!"

Four explosions rock the valley, the trees shaking as you kick off your cloak and open fire. Your pistols aren't just hunks of metal, they're extensions of your hands as you blast chunks of molten metal that burn into them.

One second passes. All four near you have fire in their throats, their necks smoldering orange and black as the bullets pierce their throats and punch through their necks, meaty globs painting the trees before they fall. Orange is the new black, after all.

Three seconds pass. You don't need to see with your eyes. You see your guns firing, the casing flying every which way as your little slugs race between each target and the closest cover. These works of art, glowing orange bullets carved with tiny runes by volunteer pyromancers, barrel past half a dozen vines, the heat and the moist jungle air leaving tiny steam trails in your mind. You see them dive, their hearts constricting and eyes widening in shock as they see orange lights drawing closer. It's a shared experience, eight trolls sharing the same last memory of a bright light.

You could take cover. As if you needed to.

You jump up to rush the camp with Dirk. He's slashing the air as he runs, violet lines slicing through the air. The camp, whatever metal or concrete their white prefab tents are made of, is quickly running out of ceilings as your comrade sends his razors into the black smoke of Roxy's handiwork.

 

He's a regal looking one, you'll grudge him that! He's wearing a purple and gold navy uniform, tassels flipping about every which way on his shoulders. There's a pair of jagged lines on his chest, an insignia that looks like an optical illusion, and probably is. Only jagged thing about him though, everything else about him is curved and straight and large. He has a grim countenance, fins tensed, teeth grit, and eyes focused on Dirk.

There's a white and gold saber in his right hand, a jade and black gauntlet on the other. The disc is a flat thing in concentric circles, alternating among three shades of blue, with glowing white chicken scratch in thirteen directions from the center. It's probably more runes, meaning they have access to magic too, and possibly stronger than the Dominion's!

Dirk stands ready, katana ready. He motions to the troll.

"Bring it," he says.

The troll opens with a white blast of light from his saber. Dirk will leap to the left, off the broken wall of a tent, and lunge for him.

You fire two paces off the troll's right in a spread with one gun, the other busy suppressing at least nine others under— two. Nix that, zero. You bring up your other gun.

Dirk leaps.

Your bullets pass by?! He makes a grab for Dirk's blade, the audacity of that one! He misses, his hand swinging out and leaving him open as Dirk cuts his shoulder. You readjust with this in mind, running for cover as the whistle of falling shells sound.

You dully register the shock as you continue firing. Dirk's back on the ground, running away as blue sparks flash off the troll's head. You hear Jane swear into the mic. This one isn't bleeding at all!

Orange sparks fly,  but you register three melting his uniform, revealing dark scales shining under the improvised light show. It's not about power, it's about brute force!

"Dirk!" you whisper into your mic. Someone like this, you wouldn't be surprised if he can understand humans. "We need to overload his shields. Jane, fire as I do!"

They grunt in assent as you get a bead for the disc's speed, but you dive away as the troll notices you and sends you two bursts of white light as a gift.

"Jake!" Roxy calls for you over the radio. "Leave it to Dirk and Jane! I need help keeping them away!"

You scream at the troll, guns running. Hundred eight bullets left. You spin away from eight feet, just outside his reach, ducking into a roll before jumping onto an intact tent.

Fire buzzes by your head as you run. You decide to reply in kind, though you doubt you'll be hearing again from the six of them. Roxy's hiding behind a chunk of burnt metal, a dozen in sight beyond the rapidly blackening trees. They have gold trim like their leader. Oh right, the Orphaner. That was his name.

Unlike their leader though, they can't stand more than a single shot each. Eighty-nine left.

A large one looking somewhat like that gorilla appears in the edge of your vision, followed by at least two walls of trolls with knives. At least fifty. Trolls, not knives. Those horns seem sharpened too. You have a better picture because they're not wearing armor. They're torn up like hardened action heroes with the scars to prove their badassery.

One'll work, but you can't be sure with one as big as that. You double tap the big one's head and get to work on the rest while Roxy fires wildly into the crowd.

Half right. The big one yells something and continues to run, one hand grabbing his head while the other trails behind, striped club the size of a boar's head in hand. He's the only one; you've spent eighteen bullets on the crowd, while the rest run over eighteen bodies on the multicolored ground, their dancer's footwork moving past debris and vines with ease.

Almost comical, really. Even if they reach you, and they might if you can't stop laughing— your ear sponges make sure you don't really hear them, so they're like mimes aggressively presenting their teeth to the dentist, screaming about the wonders of oral hygiene.

Seventy-four bullets. Roxy tells you to stop shooting.  You imitate firing and pretend you're out of ammo.

You spot a glint in the air an instant before the horde runs into the razor wire.

Good grief, when did this turn into an abattoir about to fail its health inspection? The first line cuts themselves on the web of wire, a hundred cuts drawing colorful lines over them.

Then the second wave pushes them fully into the first. "Bust them!" Roxy yells as the first wave makes it past the wire in pieces, which have begun to reveal themselves as they cake with blood.

You aim for the ones with fingers and feet stuck in the net, the unlucky sods putting on an impressive imitation of deer caught in the headlights. You holster one gun as you take out your machete, the turkey shoot barely deserving your attention.

Roxy pulls back the wires as you charge ahead, ready to cut some sugar canes.

Fifty-five bullets left. The first one to get in close gets a barrel in its temple, the bullet punching out and taking a second. You swing horizontally, forcing two back and a third onto the ground. You force the two to join their fallen comrade. Fifty-three.

You can't be bothered to describe the rest of the process. Roxy joins you sometime during it, you use both hands on your machete to chop heads of trolls like heads of corn. There's a kick here and there, and you punch one troll in the throat before Roxy puts it through a cheese grater.  Oh yeah, there were shells at one point, but they only weed out the horde.

 

Forty-six bullets left. At least eighty bodies around the two of you. A familiar zap reminds you your brothers in arms are still occupied. The two of you nod at each other before running back, both rummaging in your bags as you reload.

 

You dive into a crater as shells and trolls fly overhead. They're in bronze plate with glowing lances, taking turns at diving Dirk. The Orphaner's on foot, with his disc on his arm as a shield. Dirk's conducting his signature lightning, though it isn't enough?

He fills you in as you fire at the ones above. "He's taken two full blasts from it, but he's still standing. Not a chloromancer, though, at this rate he's got to be banking on reinforcements before he bleeds out." Holy smokes, really?!

Hundred forty bullets left. They're wily and unpredictable, but they're wasteful, lots of energy spent on all these twirls and bounces and a baker's dozen other things that convince you they're showing off for their leader.

Hundred thirty. Not anymore they're not!

"Jake!" Roxy yells at you. You turn to see her straining. "Help me! He's a strong one!" She has a tangle of wires skin-deep on the Orphaner, who zones Dirk out with a swing of his shield. Dirk's going to dodge out and close back in with another surge.

You grab Roxy's shoulders and pull. She's yelling through her teeth, as are you, because you still aren't budging! The wires aren't going any deeper!

Shiny violet blood sprays in the air out as one of Jane's rounds penetrates. He yells something as he and Dirk lock swords. Dirk gives way and ducks to his right, inches away from a white-hot beam the size of his head, but gets knocked over by his disc-shield.

The Orphaner drops his shield and jumps on. The disc lights up. He's trying to make his escape, the scoundrel!

He flies into the air, and Roxy yelps. You're still holding onto him! He doesn't possibly mean to fly away with the two of you in tow?

Roxy reels in her wire. You grab her waist with one hand as you swing your other out, firing at him. His uniform's gone, and his black and blue scales are lit up like watercolors, brittle after Dirk's electrifying assault. Not as shockingly, the plates come off easily, your bullets melting into his skin.

He grunts as he swings. He cuts the wire and the two of you yell. You twist towards the ground. You'll make it safely with two seconds to spare.

Jane says something about coming down. Of course you're coming down! Gravity is a harsh mistress!

Roxy stumbles as you continue firing from the ground. More flying trolls appear, but they gather around the Orphaner. Hundred seventeen bullets left.

Jane appears as you catch your breath. "He escaped."

He did, didn't he? "Yes, but he can't run! He's likely headed to another camp thirty miles in that direction." It'll be a hike through two swamps and more jungle, but it'll only be a full day and night away.

"Correction. He can run and is. But he can't hide. He won't. Not after the four of us managed to kill the rest of his force. And the fact that the shells have stopped means he's even more of an arrogant prick than I thought."

Roxy sits on the ground. You find an intact folding chair and set it for Roxy. She thanks you.

"Commander Lalonde didn't tell us he was magical." Jane fingers the notches on her wristbands because her rifle started having structural issues after the four hundred thirteenth notch.

"The only one I can think of who could do that is probably the commander herself." She's looking at Dirk's wounds. He has at least six, two of which look particularly nasty, they're gashes inches deep into his leg. You can see nanobots bubbling around his muscles.

Jane looks over him and Roxy as you keep watch. You have a few cuts and a bruise from this one troll who came at you with its bare fists, but they can wait. Wait a minute.

"Chums?" When did they change? "When did the forest turn back green and verdant?"

Dirk looks up. "Fallout from the Orphaner's magic, though I wouldn't discount something else. We should check it out."

Roxy nods, then winces as Jane applies something foul -smelling to her back.

Still. "What about the barrage? Traced them yet?" Though the answer comes to you before he answers. Since they all left, who's going to spot for them?

"From the ridge, same as where we took out those sentries. But they left. I'm painting the Orphaner as a glory hound. With what we know about their hierarchy, at this point he needs to take us down if he wants to keep his image." He smiles. "We won't need to go far. Ball's so far in our court it's taking a shower in our locker room."

You beam back. "Splendid! Let's catch our breath, then search the rest of the camp." Jane comes over to you and you take off your jacket, suit, and shirt.

"They didn't have time to burn anything, and I made sure to avoid their important looking stuff," Roxy says, resting her arms on her knees.

Jane frowns at your arm, then speaks. "Then it's settled. We search the base, we retreat, and we contact HQ." She takes out a fresh roll of gauze as she pours something on your arm. It smells repulsive, though it doesn't sting. Roxy could stand to learn a few lessons from you on pain tolerance.


	2. But Who Will be Marlow and Who WIll be Kurtz?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantsless spirits, patriotic eating, reminiscence of borderline Sue tendencies, and motherfucking jetbikes.

_This_ [CENSORED] _peace that has settled over our system has seen the_ [CENSORED] [CENSORED] _of its people and the cultures by which they have lived._ [CENSORED] _appeals to the government of [CENSORED] have borne no fruit, while our industry and skilled labor force has been_ [CENSORED] _completely to their_ [CENSORED]. _I tell you now, my brothers in_ [CENSORED], _we must_ [CENSORED] _! Their so-called Federation is a_ [CENSORED] _of how man first came to the stars! We set out with the bonds of liberty, equality, and fraternity; where is this now? Where have_ [CENSORED] [CENSORED] _gone? They are_ [CENSORED], [CENSORED] _by the iron-handed_ [CENSORED] _that now_ [CENSORED] _over us—_

[CENSORED] recorded words of [CENSORED], carved into [CENSORED] in [CENSORED] on [CENSORED], [PRIMARY] planet of [CENSORED]

Approved by the Orion Federation Department of Information

 

_Approximately one minute and twelve seconds later..._

You are still the unbelievably sharp and badass JAKE ENGLISH. You are a master of kicking ass, taking names, slaying that puss, and every time you wink an angel gets its wings.

You're walking through the encampment, white and gray ruins among the foliage. There's crumbled rock-like bits everywhere, white dots in a sea of red and green blood. Speaking of the blood, good lord! It is absolutely everywhere! Roxy is quite the messy one, but what do you expect with those wires?

You walk into a mostly-intact looking tent, a dome with an entryway. You push the door open, and it falls back with a thud. You walk in, tracking colored mud behind you.

Dirk is already analyzing the files, both hands on the center of the three desks arranged around the three sides of the tent. He's shrugged over a pile of phone-like implements, feeding them into a blue device that looks like that scale model of the coliseum your nana sent you for your twelfth birthday.

"Hello Dirk! What have we found?" Give up the information, sir! How are you doing?

He nods. "We're not alone here." He takes his hands off.

He straightens his back.

He turns around and looks at you.

Your hands twitch.

"There's something they wanted to catch here. That cave Roxy found behind the camp, in the cliff wall." He flicks his head behind him. "There's someone in there that the Orphaner was trying to find. The files are pretty sketchy."

You crack your knuckles. "Well, let's go take a look!"

"I'm coming with!" Roxy you sneaky vixen where did you come from.

Dirk smiles. "Alright. I'll be here, Jane'll be setting up the relay." He drops the smile. "Don't die like idiots."

"Please. We'll be there and back before you even know it!" You're not sure who said that. You thought you did, but Roxy's mouth was open too.

 

_Another forty-six seconds later..._

"So, Jake! Let's go spella— spiel— cave diving!" Roxy peers into the cave, a smoothly lined cave. This isn't any work of nature, that much you're sure of.

You ready your pistols. "Tallyho!" you say as you run in.

The cave doesn't twist or turn at all! You walk about two hundred feet, not seeing anything. No stalagmites, stalactites, no loose stones, not even a pebble.

The path goes up. "After you, Jakey." Thank you. No really.

The cave isn't dusty, it actively goes out of its way to be as calm and uncavelike as possible. It is an utterly oval cave, like it was carved out by a cadre of incredibly devoted stonecutters.

 

_A few hundred feet's worth of walking in the dark later..._

"Come forward," a voice says. Alright! Guns at the ready! Who's ready to meet their maker?!

"Who is it?" Roxy asks.

You see it as you walk up the last of the uphill path. It's a purple-skinned thing, a portly king lazing on its throne of rock. It's not wearing any clothes, and you stop looking at its legs and the baby bird that has taken refuge between them. It has exaggerated pecs and shoulders, with patterns over its skin like teeth marks. It has a thick neck and thicker face, like a blunted triangle with four eyes. It grips the arms of its stony, uniform throne with clawed, four-fingered hands. This is no troll. Perhaps. A troll with the misfortune of an acute skin issue?

"Eww," she whispers to you. "You can totes see his dick."

You stand sideways and point at him. "Introduce yourself! Who are you?"

It glares at you, all four eyes glinting with light in the pitch black darkness of the cave.

You continue staring. You study its eyes, how the lower set of eyes are more widely placed from its center than the upper set. It has bulging muscles in its legs, impressions of veins and sinews visible even from about eighty feet away.

It keeps staring. You should've warned it about stares. You've already determined how to kill it. Eyes, jugular, tendons, heart. You are motherfucking Jake English, you are the master hunter! You hunt beasts and those that choose to take of their nature. If it charges, you will shoot it and it will die.

It laughs. "Audacious!" It leans back, arms outstretched and hands beholding the ceiling, engaged in a second bout of raspy laughter.

"Jakeeeee." What, Roxy?! "It's like a worm in an apple!" Not now dammit! You will discuss the dongs of the native fauna at a later date! The dick discussions can be put on hold!

"You laugh, good sir, but twice you have failed to answer. What is your name?"

It sits back down, slumping in its brown-gray throne. "I am the lord of these jungles. This is my title, for my name is anathema. Who is it that dare approach my court?"

No fear! "I am Jake English!"

"Roxy Lalonde." Can they be related? It's not every Tom, Dick, and Harry, but it's not an exotic one.

It puts a finger to its rounded chin. "Know that you are here because I have willed it, and you will wish to hear my deal." The name of Faust comes to mind.

Still, what  could a jungle lord do to claim your soul? You flex one arm, cupping your bicep with the other. "State your deal! What is your proposal?"

it puts its hand back. A moment later, it lets it hang from the seat. "This Orphaner, they call him." It rolls its words and utilizes more phlegm than needed. "Bring me his head. He sought to slay me, the upstart whelp." Oh?

"Can you make purple trees?" Roxy asks.

Its flabby lips smile. "The wrath of a god, to be devoured."

A deal implies exchange. "And what will you give us, mighty lord of the hunt?"

It claps slowly. "A hunter unto myself. Bring me his head, Jake English. The rest of his kind that you seek. I will make them fit for the slaughter! Weak and cursed and flimsy! Do this and you have my blessing!"

You salute it. It shares the same goals as you. "You, good sir, have an agreement!" You turn to Roxy, who's done her best to look casual. "Come, Roxy! Let's go tell the others!"

You turn around and walk back the five hundred fifty feet. As you walk down the slope, the voice booms behind you. "Let his blood water the earth! Let his flesh tear and voice squelch!"

Rather dramatic, this whole thing.

 

_One return walk later..._

There's a pop as you reenter the green-filtered sun. The cave behind you no longer exists.

Roxy turns back to it, looks at it with wide eyes, then turns to you with a frown. "Welp. Let's go tell Janey."

"Agreed. We have such a tale to tell."

You walk back through the camp. To the right is a pile of bodies, a round donut with a space in the center big enough to fit a pistoleer and an assassin. It seems Roxy didn't get here yet, judging by the relative lack of exploded buildings.

You peer into an open hole as you walk by, too round to be anything but deliberate. There's a dead troll between two broken parts of a table. Scratch that, it seems Roxy did get even back here.

Jane sits in the clearing, a pair of cables from ports on her hips of her suit connecting to a relay. It has an antenna, a pair of rotating dishes, and four screens for either interface or broadcast.

You salute your team leader. "Greetings, Jane. We've investigated the cave."

She doesn't look up. Calibrating relays is a bunch of jargon and gobbledygook that you can't be arsed to learn. "That's good. What'd you find?"

Roxy says it before you can, and not what you wanted. "Barney the dinosaur really let himself go." How is that possibly a good description?!

She looks up. One dish stops spinning. She looks back at it. "Oh bother." She looks back at the pair of you. "Jake?"

Roxy whimpers. You take a breath. "It called itself the master of these lands, and the purple flora was its doing. It seems to be non-hostile for now, as it also wants the Orphaner dead. As for its powers, the cave itself is now gone, not to mention it's a very muscled, if large and bulky, creature."

She joins in with actually useful info. "We made a deal with it, and it said it'll help us get the rest of them, whatever that means."

Jane nods all the while, fiddling with all four interfaces. "I see. Well, I should have this. Roxy, get Dirk here. We almost have command ready." Roxy darts off.

You put your hands on your hips and wait.

 

_One hands on hips and semi-expectant look later..._

The upper left monitor crackles with life, filling with commander Lalonde's ever inquisitive gaze. All four of you salute.

"What have you found?"

Jane speaks. "The Orphaner was caught, but escaped. First document I've sent, it's a comparison between our given info and his actual capabilities. In addition, the eleventh document has a transcript of orders sent between here and the forward base in this system. The Summoner is elsewhere, as is the Cardinal." Gadzooks, you forgot Jane has a pair. She must be pissed about the shoddy intel.

The commander raises an eyebrow, then looks at the monitor next to her. "Interesting," she says in monotone. "Another botched mission. I suspect spies in our midst." Her brow furrows as she bites her lip.

She softens. "My apologies."

Jane nods. "We also encountered a native power to this area, which also wants to see the Orphaner dead, and has promised his assistance in exchange. Last document contains the mission report."

She raises an eyebrow again. "I see." She looks at Roxy with a pained expression.

Roxy steps back. "What?"

She looks again at the four of you. "There is an encampment to your northeast." Thirty miles. "Continue your chase of the Orphaner. First Lieutenant Jane, you have permission to engage and destroy hostiles at your discretion." Jane nods.

"Good luck. Command out." The monitor blacks for a second, then returns to a screen of waves and grids you can't make heads or tails of.

Jane speaks up. "We have our orders. We're going to deconstruct this relay, then we're going to eat lunch, then we march. Ten miles before we stop." Should be doable.

You salute, as does Dirk. Roxy falls over on her rear, arms crossed.

Jane shares that same pained expression, shame and disappointment fighting for space on her face.

 

_That day, in a corner of the base not FOOT-DEEP IN BLOOD AND BODIES..._

You eat your food with condescension and pride. This wasn't grown on the fields of your homeworld, a verdant land of forests and seas. It's the breadbasket of the subsector, and aspiring cooks across it make a journey there, to sample and learn the hundreds of fish, meats, and grains. The destitute and homeless of your home eat better than most people ever do!

Then there's this. It's some bland slop, light brown and goopy in your makeshift hollowed out grenade turned bowl. Thankfully, you supplement it with salted meat, the previous night's kill.

It was another satisfactory kill. You stalked the jungle for an hour until you encountered some quadrupeds, more boar-like things. There were six of them, sleeping in the bushes at the base of a rather wide tree overrun with moss at its roots. You lined the shot, feeling your heartbeat. You picked out the plumpest boar, aimed at its head. Its back rose and fell in a gentle rhythm.

"Jake?" Jane looks at you. "Reminiscing again?" She knows you fairly well.

You give her the trademark smile and finger pistols. "You got it!"

She groans and goes back to eating.

 

_One climb up the valley later..._

Relay disassembled and camp scoured, you notice ravens flying past you as you march.

 

As the group's wilderness expert, you lead the way through over a thousand trees, over nine thousand vines, nine flocks of birds, eighteen hills, sixteen pools of murky water, and a pack of hyenas eating another pack of hyenas.

 

_Six hours and ten miles later..._

Jane signals for the group to stop. "We'll settle here for the night. I'll take first watch. Jake, you take next."

You nod. "Yes ma'am." Dirk and Roxy took the watch night before, so it's only fair. You nod off at the base of a tree, between two mossy rocks.

 

_An indeterminate number of hours later..._

"Up and at 'em. Your turn." Already? But it's so soon!

You get up, mumbling. You shake your head and practice blinking until you're ready to take on the day.

Or night, as it were. It's... uh, probably four hours to dawn? Why can't every planet have a twenty-four hour day?

You climb a tree and take watch. The moon is waxing, and there isn't a single light in the distance. It's surprising how obtrusive man is in nature. Bears can smell candy from miles away, and one crunched leaf can scare away every bird in a thousand paces. You haven't found any troll tracks, though. You've spotted plenty of animal prints, but no footprints besides your own.

You reminisce about your previous time in the military. The drill sergeant at boot camp didn't like you very much, though you showed him! You left everyone else coughing for air in your dust! Then you actually ended up in the rangers. Good grief! SERE training was probably the worst time of your life. Though then you got to take a trip to supposedly 'the worst places in the universe.'

You chuckle. One time you had a free day because everyone else had chunks of them eaten by ravenous razorbirds. You breached protocol, but you went out and brought back a rhino to eat. You had to hike the next day barefoot, but no one doubted you after that. Even your CO admitted afterwards it was just protocol and really he couldn't bring himself to mean it.

 

_Four hours of CONSTANT WATCHFUL VIGILANCE WITH FULL FOCUS AND DISCIPLINE later..._

You slide down the tree, careful to not track dirt on your sleeping bag. You poke each of them awake, then lose your will to live as you take out the goo that masquerades as your breakfast.

You soldier on through it. Eating goop for home and hearth!

You get restless. The Orphaner is still out there. And the others. And who knows whatever that chap in the magical disappearing cave is up to?

"Jane, we're still about twenty miles off. We could probably march double time for nine hours."

She looks at you strangely. You feel your face, checking for leeches.

"No! You of all people? Besides, I'm certain they'll be sending out patrols far and wide since they know we're coming."

Hmm. "Fair enough." You really want to shoot something, but you're not sure if you have enough bullets. Last count, you only had a bit over a thousand.

 

They come while you're putting your hollowed grenade away. Eight of them, riding on hoverbikes, the wheels of a regular motorcycle replaced with engines and four long, welded pipes in the front that ended in serrated points, with a gun barrel in the middle. They fly over the trees, weaving through branches while firing on you from above.

They pass by. Jane's leaning on one leg as she fires back. Roxy's nowhere to be seen, and Dirk flips up and backwards as soon as you hear the screech of their engines, dubiously edible slop flying in the air. He calls a bolt of lightning and catches the last one to pass, the bike crunching into a ball with a creamy center against a tree.

There's a silence as the screeching fades and all of you are busy focusing. They're making another pass.

To your left. You fire at a large branch, breaking it off the tree. No one gets crushed under it, but they all dodge out of the way, taking an alternate route that detours them through a thicker tree line that precludes them firing back.

An agonizing eternity later, the blighters make a third pass, except they're two short. One of them comes down with a pitchfork, speeding on the grassy jungle floor to skewer you.

Dirk yells something at you, waving down? You don't fire the one shot you wouldn't need more than.

The bike rushes at Dirk with the speed of a rat on a sinking ship.

Dirk turns.

He raises both hands up, cupped.  
The troll flies ever closer.

Dirk widens his legs. You could drive a car between them!

The pitchfork shines, a white glint along one of its tines.

He bends his knees. You could drive—

You could fit a bike under it.

Dirk unsheathes his sword, flips it to a reverse grip in his right hand, and flicks his wrist to swing his sword backwards. The sword catches between two prongs and knocks it up as he jumps. He swings his legs fully in the air.

The windshield of the bike comes an inch to his crotch as Dirk's arse slams into the rider's face. Dirk grabs onto the bike and pulls it up into the sky. The rider falls to the ground as the pitchfork flips around in the air.

Jane executes it with a headshot as the pitchfork lands sharp side down through its chest, its arms and legs flailing one time before going limp.

Roxy reappears, riding another bike. She beckons Jane onto the bike.

Dirk appears as Jane gets on behind Roxy, one arm wrapped around her while the other carries a rifle with gripping aids on her sleeve. He lets the bike fall to the ground, stopping six inches off a nasty-looking rock.

"Hey loser, get on. We're going all Endor up in here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No grav-guns. Then again, they gotta be what, 4+ save at best?"
> 
> When in doubt, have a man with a gun appear at the door. It was either the bikes or it drags on for a thousand words about a bunch of crap people assume happens but don't actually want to read about.
> 
> "We should write a book about a hike. Just six hundred pages of people putting one foot in front of the other."
> 
> On a tightrope, over a fjord, sharks waiting in the water, eagles pecking at them from above.  
> Note to self: contrive to include that scene in there at a point in the future.


	3. We Meet Again You Dashing Wanker!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a bike and Jake loses his legs and stuff happens.

_Literally a picosecond after the end of the last chapter..._

For probably the last time till later due to rule of three, you are JAKE ENGLISH; commander coolness, sultan of swagger, and four hundred eleven other honorifics that need an entire chapter to themselves.

You are currently soaring through the air, the trees flying below you and the wide open skies above you. The sun glints off your pistols and your bullets as you trade fire with other uncouth ruffians that haven't figured out how to share the road. They're on their bikes, one hand on the bike while the other holds a top-heavy pistol that leaves trails of smoke and sparks as it fires. You've wrapped your legs around Dirk's midsection while you flap about dangerously close to the exhaust.

You're busy accounting. Dirk has a given set of movement patterns, as do the bikers. It's just a matter of lining them up. It's coming in four seconds. You're going to fire from your far hand, the one bent at the elbow and over your chest. The biker that's accosting you is going to veer closer to you because Dirk is a wily driver and he just can't be caught. That bullet isn't actually going to hit the biker, the biker is going to drive into it, clipping him on his shoulder on the other side, burn off his tendons, make him lose control of the bike, and crash into the jungle with six tumbles and as many broken legs and ribs to await nature's heavy duty janitors, the hyenas.

You fire and turn your attention. Hundred forty-three. That chap won't be needing anything else anymore.  To your left, you see a bike make a hard ascent. As it rises into the sky, you see small specks trail from the seat. Oh, it's entrails. There's hands on the wheel  and an arse on the seat, then it rises into this salsa of bone and blood. Roxy laughs over the radio. "Jane here. I'm pulling up to your right and Jake what are you doing?!"

Oh right! You grab Dirk's shoulders and pull yourself upright. Dirk's also adapted to the one-handed drive, the other on his katana, as has Jane, but with her sniper. Good grief, the kind of grit and eyes you'd need to make a shot one-handed while on a bike. Even Dirk, he can just reenact medieval times and skewer a bloke with a ride-by.

"That's the end of that." Wait, when did Roxy switch with Jane? "Get to the base now, they'll know we're coming."

"Just drive me around, I'll string up the trees so we can bring the whole forest down on them!"

"Jungle, Roxy." There are clear differences! Also you're sure she said jungle before too. Being contrary isn't cool, Roxy, it's just inefficient. She hmmphs. You're more mature than that, you don't reply.

 

_Seconds in the future, but not many. Seriously, they're bikes, it's like eight seconds later._

The camp comes into sight. It's far bigger, with barricades and artillery and barbed wire. Roxy begins playing with her fingers as Dirk asks you to take the wheel. Boy, you haven't ridden a hoverbike in years! Not since you challenged one of your boot camp friends to a friendly race. You still cringe slightly when you realize the cat probably still has wine stains on it.

His hands start sparking as you hear chatter below you. They've spotted you!

And right on time! The Orphaner, looking as well-groomed and twice as angry as last time. The light show's about to begin! Dirk has his lightning, the bastard has his chryselephantine blade. "Jake! Take us down, we need cover!" You'll get right on that, lad!

You dip below the tree line. There could be a thousand of them down here, all running around with their guns and too panicked to figure out where you even are!

You don't take notice of the firefight. You swerve under a branch. You take a hard left to dodge a tree. You spin around a cluster of trees to repeat the same route, swerving and veering and jinking. The effort isn't, at least not now. You are one with this jungle. You know every tree in the area, you've mapped out the routes you need to take to circle around the target after the second pass.

You are Jake English. You are bloody calm. This isn't a frantic drive dictated by split-second decision making fueled by adrenaline. This is an execution of intent.

 

_Two minutes of zen to be likened to that of monks and unlucky sods who dutifully accompany their spouses while shopping later..._

Nine passes and dozens of traded blows later, you notice familiar shining strings. "Pull up! I'm about to bring the jungle down on them!" Roxy yells. You break out of your zen state and embrace the sky.

It's silent.

No, a branch snaps incompletely, its outer layers cracked open while a pliable core bends to keep the two together like defective nun chucks.

it's the noise of autumn, when little kids and their parents rake the warmly colored leave. A million leaves brush against one another.

A moment before, it's silence. The calm before the storm as a thousand soldiers realize why the sun's suddenly taken a vacation.

Complete and utter ruin. It's a single sound of hundreds of tons of wood making impact on the jungle floor. Artillery shells explode, bodies crunch with a wet noise, screams ring out for an instant before being silenced and whoa nelly.

The Orphaner hasn't forgotten! He has a clear shot and you focus on him. The way he extends his arm and bends his wrist as he waves his saber like a wand. The fire in his eyes and how he moves his lips. Whatever he's saying, it's not linked to the hot blasts. He's yelling at you. You'd yell back, but neither of you can understand the other.

You see a ship overhead, violet and gray and segmented like an insect, with a blue corona left over from just warping in. It's not one of yours and the situation has suddenly taken a downward spiral. "Starship overhead!" you yell.  "Orbital bombardments incoming!"

"Orders?!" Roxy throws a tangle of string. The Orphaner flips off his disc. He spins and bends in unnatural ways through the tangle, then fires another shot at Jane.

She retaliates with a headshot that bounces off into blue sparks. "No retreat! Take him down!" As you say, commander. Forward!

Dirk taps your shoulder. You let go of the right handle as Dirk grabs it. For a second you're airborne as you latch onto him and let go of the other handle, swinging around behind him.

You settle back into your old position, legs around him. It's bloody go time, you bastard! Dirk drives upwards as you pound the trigger, orange and blue flashing around him in a pretty light show.

He screams something at you, then lowers his saber. Roxy throws another cluster.

The Orphaner leaps towards the wires. Six slivers of light disappear in his clutches as he yanks.

Roxy goes flying, legs in a frenzy as she's dragged across the sky by the wires woven throughout her suit. Jane shouts something incomprehensible over the radio as she drives towards her.

You continue firing. One twenty. He swings his fist at you, blood running down his sleeve. Wait, he doesn't mean to—

Roxy crashes into you. The world spins over you, her panicked face the only constant as you fall.

 

_Seconds later, but probably not many, but not just one or two, because vectors mean they didn't fall straight down. What are vectors? Go read an actual book nerd._

There's something stuck in your stomach, you can't feel your legs, and you're staring down the barrel of a dozen angry trolls who are glad to be out of that sweaty courtroom.

Hundred seven. You missed a shot, you're right buggered now. You stretch up to see black, rifled rods. Three of them, no they're red. They're bent at angles and you feel the painkillers kicking in as you study the rips and there's more footsteps.

You really can't move your legs. Those rods are right through the center, they've definitely torn through your spine.

You look up, the Orphaner letting loose with white, thermometer bottom shaped beams as pinkish lightning dyes the sky.

You holster your pistols on your chest. You set your palms on the edges of the pillar. You're definitely on a corner of some building. This is going to take some delicate work.

You set Dirk's nanobots back as you push off the pillar and reopen the wounds as the bars tear back through and rake dangerously close to your diaphragm as you launch at an angle.

You orient yourself towards the pillar as you tumble, grabbing onto the edge with your right hand and snap off the rods with the other.

Three snapped rods and an unholstered pistol later, you're ready to go with one forearm on the pillar, one hundred seven bullets left, and no legs. You're going to remain the top dog here, even if it means using one arm to climb around a pillar for complete coverage because you've lost everything below your belly button!

You make one circuit to take in the surroundings. Lots of broken trees and rubble, but there's another clearing besides the one with the former anger management patients about a hundred thirty degrees to your left.

You wish you could yell without giving away your position. You want me, you bastards?! Come on! If you think you're hard enough, you bloody pansies!

One troll trips over a fallen rock and blows up. You do a double take.

No, the smoke and roasted bits are still there. Incompetent ninny.

There's that whistle again. Artillery. You look up and see four shells in the air, arcing for you.

Three will miss. The fourth will hit the pillar right about where your feet are dangling on the other side. The pillar will break and you will fall and be forced to roll around like it's a pigpen.

You take aim and fire, then immediately dip your head below the pillar's edge. Hundred six.

Smoke and heat engulf you, but like the pillar, you still stand. Up above there's nothing up above.

The Orphaner, Dirk, Jane, none of them are up above.

A pink glow in the distance tells you that you aren't alone, just with a malfunctioning radio since none of them have checked up on you. They've moved far enough that they're in untouched jungle, though. Regrouping will be difficult.

There's pricks in you like swallowed needles. If the painkillers are wearing off, that means you don't need them.

You wiggle your toes. Hell yes! Dirk, you are a metallurgical miracle worker!

You jump down as you hear the whistling again.

Hundred one. You're definitely losing your touch, but you're on two legs and you're going to duck into the rubble. Roxy's expectation was that she was going to flatten everyone, but not yours. This likely trapped more than it killed. Then again, she expected to still be on that bike. You don't know where she is either, but you're going to find her. Leave no one behind!

Hundred even. You holster one gun and take out your machete.

You're going to comb this jungle with a fine toothed comb. One blood and brain splattered tree at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You realize those bots have essentially dug up Lavoisier, ground him up, and are using his ashes in their blunts like that one movie on Comedy Central I saw?"
> 
> They deserve a bit of reward. Making spines is hard, you know.


	4. Jake and Roxy get their murder on.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake derives no joy from killing. There is no pleasure at all derived from the hunt. Absolutely no rush of adrenaline when the world complies with his intentions and sends every stab, bullet, and knife where he wills them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Now, why are we here?"
> 
> I don't want to.
> 
> "Explain yourself to the class young lady."
> 
> I took on too much, burned myself out, and gave it up.
> 
> "ALMOST gave it up. You're doing this. For once in your miserable life you will FINISH THE FIGHT."

_The New Anaheim Intercession is regarded as one of the finest hours of the Dominion, where weeks of strategic planning, superior tactical assets, and on the ground initiative led to the pacification of an entire world in less than twelve hours. Additionally, it is lauded by humanitarians across the nation for coming out of a battle between hundreds of thousands with only two casualties, both concussions from soldiers failing to use their chutes properly and never leaving the orbiting ships._

The Pan-Terran Pageant, McAlister-Bennett 17th edition, on the New Anaheim Pacification

 

_"You will hold the line or you will die like the rest of them!"_

Orion Central Command to 177th Army Division, Battle of New Anaheim (Defunct, survivor rolled into 13th Army Irregulars after near-complete loss of 40th Army Group)

 

_One broken fine-tooth comb later..._

Your name is STILL JAKE BLOODY ENGLISH GOD DAMN IT. You should be paralyzed. You should be dead, impaled on debris like the prey of the shrike.

You've lost a few fingers, Dirk's technological homage to Clarke's third law reforming them as you stalk, grey stumps dividing and flowing over one another like cuttlefish over their prey.

You have forty-two bullets left, blood soaking your armor through to the point where it's coagulated into a second skin between the mesh and your skin, each fresh cut drawing rainbows. It's all about blood. It's been about the blood. Your blood, their blood, the blood of every last living thing on this planet, on those unnatural hunks of hollowed metal across the cosmos, the PULSE of it all.

You are Jake English. That is your name and you're damn proud of it. But Jake English is right now, a hunter. A predator. The one that does the killing and eating, one after the other or both at once. And these alien... things with bright, gaudy sludge running through their veins. They are the prey.

 

You move through the rubble. The smaller trees couldn't break them, but the great ones that could singlehandledy build a house, they crushed the plastic of the utilitarian tents. And there were trees that stood, ones that withstood the impact of another, bigger tree falling only because another similarly large and otherwise fatal tree pushed it from the other direction. The ones who could give but not receive, they broke in half, forming acute angles to the ground and the tree on which they broke.

Six of them. One's missing a leg past the knee, another has blood over the eyes.

You run, throwing knives scavenged from other dead bodies. Two hit them in the center of mass, a third in the knee. The one missing the other, coincidentally.

Their faces. Their pupils dilate and their posture stiffens. You throw a fourth knife to put the legless one out of its misery.

Three of them, one to your front and two to its left. The one on the far end fires, but it doesn't matter. You step with your left foot and lunge to the one in front, driving your machete under its chin.

You step with your right foot and pull with your left arm, your blade tearing out of its head vertically to cut through the next bugger's face, ear first through the cheek.

What a shame. Glorious deaths exist. This last troll, firing wildly, hasn't earned it. You pull a knife out of the sheath of the troll with the fresh Glasgow grin and hit the bullseye, fitting its large horns.

 

Lightning crackles in the distance. Dirk. Pack member.

Wait no not pack mem... well yes but he's your compatriot! Your fellow brother in arms.

It reminds you of Roxy. The one you need to save.

 

  _Another broken comb later..._

You've been cutting a swathe through the camp to where Dirk and Jane are fighting the Orphaner. No sign of Roxy however, and it's quite worrying!

"Jake!" someone calls. Speak of the devil.

You look around. You have enough bullets. You scream her name back. "ROXY!"

Where is she? "What's up?" the devilfucking DICKENS?!

You turn around. You stop the knives three inches from her scraped face. Her scraped, grimacing face. Which is upside down, suspended by wires.

And the rest of her body. She isn't headless. Dirk says if he was decapitated, he'd survive long enough to bring back the dead, raise oceans, fell cities, erupt volcanoes, then bring himself back. You believe him, but you rather like your neck not completely cut through.

"Wow Jakey. That's nice." she observes. "I've already been through a cheese grater, let's slice some more!"

Roxy please. "Apologies, lass. I've been on the prowl. Sitrep?"

"Just been making them cut themselves silly on my silly string. You?"

She tilts her head. "Starting a knife collection?"

Excuse me! "Well, you see. When you have limited resources and even when you don't, use the enemy's against them.

"Have you seen Dirk?" you ask. She shakes her head.

You nod once, in the direction of where the lightning is coming from. The halves must meet again!

 

There's a large troll with a hellequin mask and two massive gauntlets outlined with glowing blue iconography. Another troll rests on its back, unconscious and bandaged, its arms wrapped around the large one's neck. Two more follow, one with a splint on its leg and an arm over the other's shoulder.

You spend a bullet in the large one, its mask cracked and burnt and stained with purple blood as the hulk of a troll falls. The one on its back doesn't move, but you cut its neck for safety.

You see Roxy retract her string as you wipe your machete, the other two falling apart into pieces, each sliding off another in different angles to resemble bedrolls thrown on top of one another at the start of a camping trip.

 

A familiar crackle in the air. You swear you can smell the ions.

 

A group of eighteen. Three patrols, moving haphazardly looking for survivors. This time you hang back while Roxy slings across the forest on her strings, finally out of the blast zone. You can tell because you're not stepping over a branch or corpse every three steps.

She's a lovely girl, Roxy. She predicts where a patrol will be, then loops wire around that area. When they're in the zone, every twig and inch-deep cut into bark snaps and the wire surrounds them. She adjusts with smooth flourishes of her fingers as the wire settles in and tightens around them. Then the wires tighten and rise across their abdomens, their chests, through their shoulders if necessary, and stop at the neck. Then she tugs, and half a dozen heads fly like skeet.

You want to take up violin for some reason.

 

You break into a sprint the moment you hear Jane's throat tearing itself out screaming at the Orphaner.

There's a tree in the way. A few. Twenty-six, to be precise. The three of them are surrounded by stumps, some cut clean through, others concave and charred. Dirk and Jane have bladed weapons out, tag-teaming the Orphaner.

"Round two, foul demon!" you yell. Forty-one shots left, but also nine knives.

The Orphaner's on his last legs and everyone knows it. His uniform is in ruins, ragged strips of cloth subbing in for the tassels that no longer exist. His skin is marked with circular burns, silvery lines, and splotches of dark purple. He's bleeding from empty eye sockets, and his fins look like the throwaway stubs from chopping lettuce. And he doesn't have his disc-shield anymore.

Not that he acknowledges it. The bastard stands tall, parrying an attack before blasting white hot death at you on the backswing. You dodge, feeling the heat bake the blood on your suit.

Half of Jane's face is smooth, the other half is dirty and sweaty. Wait. There's movement on the clean side on the skin, shaking. Almost like it's washing past one—

You did WHAT to HER?!

You take aim. You fire one between the eyes he doesn't have. It bursts into orange and blue sparks, but the next three eat through his arm. Whatever magic's protected him is weakening.

Dirk chops at the Orphaner, face blank as he methodically hacks away, forcing him to parry at angles that leave him wide open for you.

Three shots on his sword arm. His grip weakens as your rounds burn him.

He steps back and throws the saber up, catching it with his right as his left arm falls slack against his bleeding body.

Two wires glint between his legs, then his left leg lands on a fallen tree, thrown across the clearing of stumps.

The Orphaner kneels, saber held in a reverse grip as he plants it in the dirt as a stand. He knows it's over.

 

Dirk runs him through the crown of the head and down the spine.

Roxy decides now is a good time to slice his head off. The string tightens and glides through his neck, but catches on Dirk's sword.

Dirk stands unamused, sword held in mid-air, three wires wrapped around the blade. Roxy's face is... Roxy you are the most unprofessional— now of all times?!

"Roxy," Jane says, sheathing her swords. Her voice is raspy. She struggles with syllables. "let go of it." Yes, Jane! There is a right time, place, and method for levity. This doesn't fit the third.

Dirk lowers his blade, sheathing it. He grabs the Orphaner's saber, inspecting the hilt. He tests buttons to no avail.

He grunts. "It's locked. DNA or magical signature. Jane, you got the shield fragments?"

"Yeah." Jane looks hollow and ill-fitted in her skin, eyes glazed. She shakes her bag. "C'mon, we got hiking to do. We're leaving this place."

There's still the business of that purply jungle man-thing, though. You reach for wait the head's... gone?

There's a blue and purple sapling growing where the Orphaner's head used to be. Guttural laughter rings in the distance, thick with phlegm.

"Well that answers that question." Dirk beats you to the punch. "We got two bogs, a copse, and a set of hills to traverse. We should move before they send another army after us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Feel like Dirk should be a solitaire, but the sudden A10 eat an entire legion tac squad in one turn's kinda Mary Sue-ish.  
> What am I saying? They're all Mary Sues."
> 
> That's the point, man. I write so they kick ass for all that's good and holy.
> 
> "Bruh. You wouldn't be here if I didn't prod your ass back into it. I bet you're not even gonna edit like I said."
> 
> Well, this is at 3am, so... screw it I'll do it next chapter.


	5. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Assassination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I told you bro. Cut down on it, if you insist on the frills every chapter, you're gonna burn out." bluh bluh bluh. That's coincidentally the same noise he makes when he's eating dicks. Like literally, a hot dog contest except instead of sweaty spectators and plates of questionable meat, it's... no it's still sweaty onlookers and mediocre sausage.
> 
> Here's the next part.

_Cephaladon Apartments, 100 Old Hennessy Road, New Andreas District_

Your name is JANE CROCKER, black ops leader, deadeye, and the best chef this side of the galaxy. You're currently lounging on a chaise in the first floor of an apartment on Hyacinth, an industrial world where the most common life-form is a photosynthetic, long-lived plant that looks like its namesake world. It's used in folk remedies and seasoning for a sweet and salty aftertaste.

Commander Lalonde found evidence at least two cells operating in Federation space are alien sympathizers, and three more that relied on them were compromised and eliminated. While she works to reestablish the network and stop the leaks, your team's been redirected towards another objective that doesn't rely on shady, gritty agents with cigarettes and rugged trench coats, armed only with their wit and detective ability. You know this because you brought the info back yourself from your ordeal with the Orphaner.

Lalonde believes there are sympathizers on Hyacinth who've thrown their lot in with the trolls, and the reports you found confirm they've been gathering resources to annex the world and launch invasion fleets from it in days. Problem is, politics. You're not allowed to be this far into Federation space, and there's going to be hell to pay if they find out the Dominion snuck genetically augmented special forces into their territory.

A man with slicked blond hair and sharp shades walks up to you. Unseen, but there's another metal plug in his ear, updated with the latest translations of the troll language.

"Good news or bad news?" Dirk asks.

Every time, Dirk! "Bad."

"The townhouses are hiding boxes, and the units underground in the parking garage are hiding trolls, and lots of them." The apartment is built on a cliff, the building proper for tenants and townhouses behind it hotels for guests. Technically you're on the thirteenth floor, and the parking garage is dug under, the cliff face slowly replaced with concrete and wiring over ten years, complete with apartment units that run along the cliff face. Townhouses are behind the apartment in a small park, while the apartment itself is an orange and brown  brick building with pipes running its length. And frilly curtains in every other window like a mosaic, stretching up another thirty floors.

You get off the chaise, pat your pockets, and walk with Dirk. The Summoner's somewhere here, and he's supposed to be within a few miles. Strange, since there's no animals here. Or any within the area, there's nothing but industrial sites, quarries, and urban sprawl for the next fifty miles in any direction. Likely there's missing or misleading information, or it could be more politics. There's no reason not to believe these trolls can operate in armies with clearly defined hierarchies with no friction whatsoever.

"What's the good news?"

He sighs. "I found out what's wrong with the translators."

"And that is?" But did you fix it already?

"Dialects. This thing hasn't compensated for dialects or slang. Either that, or someone on the 18th floor's about to bean their water sister with grey jelly."

You stare at him for a few seconds. "Let's get moving. The car's on the first floor." You head for the stairway, Dirk following. Best not to take risks with the elevator.

"Dirk," you ask. "Explain to me the situation in the Federation."

You walk into the stairway and descend.

"They've managed to hold them along the Yuh Tsing arm, but it's bad. Supposedly they've set up hives and are going to spew out more of them in a few years."

Years? That's... no that's about right. You ask, "and what about neighbors? Political fallout from the invasion?"

"The Capricorn protectorate worlds're sending advisors. Inside dudes say there's at least one or two hot-shot black ops badasses among them. At least, before the high and mighty clusterfuck that went down in intel."

The sympathizers wouldn't bother to censor that though. There's no reason, and it'd be suspicious if they approached and the right people weren't notified. "The Dominion? What're the terrans thinking?" A thought shadows your mind. There shouldn't be sympathizers that far deep. Those systems are far away, past the Federation, about as far away again as the far end of the Dominion. Not unless the trolls thought that far ahead.

He blows some air from puffed cheeks in exasperation. "Same as usual. Throw some more money at it and drown them in good old human explosives."

"Well, it works." Situationally.

"Well, you know. K:D ratios are off the charts. Dudes at Verdun were on the leadership boards."

Alright, Mr. Sassypants. Be like that. You open the door into the first floor garage. There's dozens of knock-off Earth brands, all of the safety and durability with none of the glamour that accompanies these loud pieces of shits.

Speaking of pieces of shits, Jake and Roxy. They've got civvies on like the rest of you, generic clothes from the local mass textile processor. You feel naked without your full power suit, but oh well. Or was it nude? One's actual no clothes out in the buff with your delicates flapping about in the breeze like a vintage painted picture. The other's like a knight without his sword, defenseless and a breach in the dress of the day.

Jake waves at you, giving you his trademark wink. At least you think it's a wink, might be tiny seizures. At least he's professional about it all. Unlike this one.

Roxy, how do you manage to make a knitted sweater look so... You're not supposed to be drawing that sort of attention you... sigh.

Professionalism, Janey. Someone has to be, and it sure as hell ain't gonna be John. "Let's go."

Jake salutes, then elbows Roxy into doing so. The four of you get in the car, Roxy at the wheel.

"Where to, capitan?" Okay Roxy, make new ranks on a whim. See what you care. JUST SEE.

"Shipping center. Someone over there's been diverting food towards the trolls. Follow the signs, I suppose." You sit back in your seat. You feel this sort of... exhaustion at the edge. You can feel your lungs stretch to breathe, your airways feel depressed, and your arms feel heavy and graceful as a paralyzed dog.

 

You reach the shipping hub without incident. It's a massive, tiered building, rails leading out of it from every cardinal direction. The road is dark under the shadow of the bridges overhead, themselves tiered on pillars for more railways and bridges. Roxy stops the car at a meter and plinks a few coins in.

They all look at you. "Alright, team," you say. "follow Dirk's lead. He's the only one who speaks what was it, Alternian?" You go on to explain the plan. Your lot is a group of fleeing operatives from the purge going on in Dominion intelligence right now, and you've decided to barter with the trolls, information for refuge. More specifically, the information command isn't sure about, mixed in with a lot of info they know is false and minor true details that those that've defected so far wouldn't know. How they react is also important, since it'll gauge how well-informed the Summoner's contingent here is, if at all.

You enter the facility. It's a trainyard the size of an airport, long and wide but with a relatively short ceiling, recent patch jobs crusting on the corrugated metal sheets and heavy tape where the wiring runs across. Dozens scramble on forklifts in orange vests and hard hats, ferrying brown boxes.

A man with a stubble and shaving cut walks up to you. "Can I help you?"

Dirk takes center stage. "I heard people that know things come here."

The man's left eyebrow rises. "What kind of things?"

"You know. The kind of things that people want to know. People that aren't exactly supposed to be here, feel me?" Dirk taps the air a few inches over his head, about where a troll's horn would be.

He nods. "Dominion accent. Alright." He leans closer. "Alcott Heights, there's this antique shop, next to town hall. Go in, ask for Raphael."

Dirk nods, then walks away. You follow. You look at Jake and Roxy, them looking at you, and everyone looking at Dirk, who just calmly walks back to the car like a silent film detective.

"We have our target," you say as the engine starts. "Let's not waste time. Jake, drive."

"Yes ma'am!" He pulls out into the road and begins the drive back."

Plan, Janey, plan. Ignore the rumbling. Wait. Rumbling? You lower the window and look up.

 

A fleet of troll warships are warping into orbit.

 

Shock gives way to rage. "What the fuck?!" 


End file.
